


City of Angels

by Sophia_Bee



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Detective Noir, Erik-centric, Film Noir, Los Angeles, M/M, Mystery, Nazis, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 19:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20296966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee
Summary: Erik Lehnsherr is a hard boiled, hard drinking PI. One day a woman walks into his office asking for her help. She thinks her son murdered her husband. Erik knows this case is trouble but he needs the money. What he doesn't know is he's about to be plunged into an international conflict he never wanted to be part of. One that will break his heart.





	City of Angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IreneADonovan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneADonovan/gifts).

> I am a big fan of noir and historical Los Angeles. I took inspiration from on of my favorite movies of all time, Chinatown, and my deep love of Veronica Mars. Throw in a little WWII and it's all good. I hope you enjoy. Yay Big Bang! 
> 
> Art is by **[IreneADonavan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneADonovan/profile)**, and it's spectacular. Thank you so much for all your work, and putting up with me getting terribly stuck. She did three pieces and I sprinkled them through the story. 
> 
> Always, thanks to **Leafeylocket**, who proclaimed the story, "plotty" and helped me Brit-up Charles when needed, plus puts up with the Yank and her lack of u's. There's an easter egg in there for you, dearest. xoxo

The rain drifts down, and a hazy mist covers L.A., making the city of Angels sparkle like the heavenly host its nicknamed after. People walk by, hunched under newspapers, the occasional umbrella, their eyes forward. The early evening light is dim. A street light flickers and buzzes. On. Off. On again. Off. A woman walks by the alleyway and wrinkles her nose at the smell of garbage that emits from it. She’s carrying a wrapped parcel under her arm: a dress or a book, the brown paper spattered with raindrops. She’s hurrying along. No one lingers on the streets of Bunker Hill for long; unless they’re slouching in doorways, looking to sell dope or turn tricks. Her hair is wet from the summer rain. She stops and pushes her hair from her eyes. She readjusts the package under her arm. Then she sees it. A heap on the ground.  
The street light flickers back on. 

A shoe, good brown leather, shiny. The cuff of a pant leg. Her eyes narrow, she peers forward, trying to make sense of what she is seeing. The ground is wet. From the rain?But it’s dark, dark and wet, darker than the rest of the pavement, spread around the heap. Not a heap, a pile of discarded clothes. No, not that. A man. A man on the ground. A pool of blood spreading out from him. Now she can see his face. Blank, staring. 

Lifeless. 

The street light flickers off. 

The alley plunges back into darkness. 

A high pitched scream breaks through the night.

His head hurts. 

Erik rubs the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will away the pain. 

Fucking whisky.

A hazy morning light pours through the blinds, leaving stripes of sunshine across his desk. Erik can see flecks of dust floating lazily in the air. His mouth is dry and tastes sour. 

He should have told the bartender at Maxwell’s that he’d had enough, put his hand over his glass, refused another shot. But he had lost a job that day, lost the girl he’d been tailing for the last week, and was feeling sorry for himself. Instead of saying no, he’d nodded his head and watched the amber liquid fill the shot glass then enjoyed the way it burned as it slid down his throat in one gulp. 

Now he is paying. 

Erik’s head is heavy and aching. He looks around his office, glancing at the stained wallpaper, the grimy windows that look out onto the brick wall of the neighboring building. He thinks he should try to spruce it up, add a potted plant, get a girl Friday to sit at the front desk and charm clients. Except Erik kills plants and no one ever wants to work for him for that long. Once he’d sent a temp home crying after a few hours. 

Erik sighs. His temples throb and he presses his fingers to them, willing the pain away. He picks up one of the manila file folders he has piled on his desk and flips it open, staring at its contents for a long moment but reading nothing. He closes it. 

He should have just stayed home, slept off the whisky, but instead he had woken like he does every day, showered and put on the plain white button up shirt and same gray suit. It’s the uniform every private dick wears. He sees them around town, unlit cigarettes dangling from their figures, leaning against the wall of a building with practiced nonchalance, their eyes looking like they aren’t watching anything at all when they are actually seeing everything. There are a million stories to be discovered and a million private eyes to discover them. Erik is just one, and now that he’s lost his latest client, it’s going to be canned beans and lean times until someone else walks through that door. 

At least Lou at Maxwell’s will let him start a tab. He knows he’s good for it. Canned beans are always better when combined with whisky and good conversation. 

Erik drops the folder back onto his desk. He should organize, maybe even file something, but instead he leans back in his chair and props his long legs up on the wooden desk he’d rescued from some back alley a couple years ago. It’s beat up and one drawer always sticks, but it works and it was free. Erik closes his eyes and tries to ignore his nagging headache. He is just about to drift asleep when he is startled by the soft, familiar tinkle of a bell. 

He hadn’t put a bell on his door at first. He thought it was silly, that people weren’t entering some sort of shop to buy clothes and trinkets. He was a private detective. Then one of his clients had walked in on him taking a nap after a long night of tailing a cheating husband. A bell had seemed necessary after that. 

Erik looks up from his desk just as the dame walks into his office. She’s older, but she doesn’t really look it, except for the fine wrinkles around her eyes and the papery skin of her hands. Her hair is bottle blond and swept up in a perfect coif. Her dress is black but her lips are a scarlet red. She’s carrying a fur coat draped on her arm, despite the fact that it’s rarely cold enough for fur in LA. She smells like expensive French perfume, which smells the same as money. Erik smiles. He may not be eating beans after all. 

“Your secretary must be getting coffee,” 

Her voice is rich and smooth. Erik notes that her accent is not only east coast but wealthy, and he briefly wonders what she’s doing in LA LA Land. 

“I don’t have a secretary,” Erik growls. The name on the door, gold letters outlined in black, says “Erik Lehnsherr, Private Eye” and that is exactly what people get. There is no pretty secretary to make coffee and soften Erik’s hard edges. He stands and gestures to one of the two chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Miss….” 

“Mrs,” the woman gently corrects. She sits gracefully on the edge of one of the office chairs, crosses her slim legs, then leans forward and offers a perfectly manicured hand to Erik. “Mrs. Xavier. Brian Xavier.” 

Erik blinks. He recognizes the name. It had been emblazoned across the front page of the newspaper a few days ago. A movie studio exec. Found dead in an alley in Bunker Hill, not far from Angel’s Flight. Robbery gone wrong, the police spokesman said. Sure, Erik had thought. The likes of Brian Xavier don’t go to Bunker Hill for any legit reason. Everyone knows that. 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Xavier.”

She opens the small black purse she’s been holding in her lap and pulls out a perfectly folded, crisp white handkerchief, then expertly dabs at her eyes before she turns them back to him. Erik watches her carefully, studying the way she moves, how she glances down at his offer of condolences then back up at him, her eyes shining with tears that never reach her cheeks. 

“Sharon. Please call me Sharon, and thank you, Mr. Lehnsherr.” 

Erik leans back in his chair and looks at the widow of Brian Xavier. 

“The police will find his killer, Mrs. Xavier.” 

She laughs. It’s a sharp, angry little laugh. 

“I know who killed him, Mr. Lehnsherr. They don’t believe me, which is why I’m here.” 

Sharon Xavier pauses and dabs at her eyes again, then looks at Erik. She is watching him to see how her revelation lands. Erik keeps his face impassive. One family member hiring a hitman to take out another is nothing new in his business. 

“My husband was a brilliant man, Mr. Lehnsherr. A man of science. A pioneer. His work, it was invaluable. My son knew this. He wanted Brian’s work. He had him killed.” 

Sharon lets out a tragic sigh. Erik keeps his face still and impassive. She lowers her lashes and peers at him through them. 

“You’re right, Mr. Lehnsherr. Maybe the police can find his killer. But maybe for the right price, you can do it faster.” 

Erik doesn’t answer right away. There’s something off about Widow Xavier that he can’t quite put his finger on, something that sends a familiar, wary tingle up the back of his neck. He should throw her out, stay away from what feels like a snarl that won’t end well. But he just lost two clients. He needs the dough. Erik pulls open the top drawer of his desk and takes out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He taps one out then puts it between his lips but does not light it. 

“How will I do that, Mrs. Xavier?” 

“I want you to follow him. Tell me his every move. I need to know where he goes, who he sees.” 

Erik looks at the woman sitting across from him. She is calm, collected. Oddly so for someone whose husband has just been killed. Still, it’s money, and an easy job. He lights the cigarette. The smoke drifts upward. 

“I’ll need a retainer.” 

“Whatever you need, Mr. Lehnsherr. I’ll write you a check right now.” 

Erik smiles. He’ll be eating steak tonight at Maxwell’s. Sharon Xavier wants him to follow her son, and Erik needs the money. Still, something about the whole affair seems strange. After fter the widow left his office, leaving only the scent of her expensive perfume, Erik decides he wants to know more about the Xavier famly. He stops at the liquor store down the block then heads to the precinct. When he gets there, Marlowe barely looks up before he’s greeting him in their usual manner. 

“You’re an asshole, Lehnsherr.” 

Erik sets the bottle on the desk. He looks at the man sitting behind it. He looks every bit the stereotype of a police offer: salt and pepper hair, square jaw. His middle has gone a bit soft though. Too many late nights, too much booze. 

“It’s good whisky, Marlowe.”

It’s part of their schtick, a song and dance Erik does every time he asks the grizzled detective for help. Finally Marlowe glances up and let’s out a long whistle when he sees the bottle. He looks at Erik, who is now grinning wickedly. 

“Rich client, I see. Which Hollywood royalty has you sniffing around their dirty laundry this time?”

“So you’ll help me?”

“Never said I would, just curious.” 

“Two bottles.” Erik says, keeping his voice casual. 

Marlowe snorts a laugh. “I would have done it for one, Lehnsherr.”

“The Xavier case.” 

Marlowe’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“Xavier, huh? What about it? Pretty straight up robbery gone wrong. Open and shut. We don’t think he was bumped.”

Erik shoves his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders. 

“I had the widow sitting in my office yesterday singing a different tune. About the son.” 

“Yeah,” Marlowe shrugs. “She gave us that same song and dance. We looked into it but it didn’t pan out. He wasn’t even in the country. That’s some messed up family shit there. Her own son….” The graying detective trails off into a heavy sigh. It’s the sigh of someone who's seen too much. 

“Got anything else on them? The Xaviers?” 

Erik leans on Marlowe’s desk. 

“Lehnsherr…”

“Two bottles of good stuff should get me more than what I can read in the papers.”

Marlowe rolls his eyes as he stands up from his desk. Erik smiles to himself and wishes he had a cigarette. He slouches a bit more against the desk and looks around him. It’s a drab, windowless room full of wooden desks, their surfaces piled with file folders that hold the sordid secrets of the City of Angels. A couple of LAPD detectives are sitting around, one on the phone, another typing slowly and painfully. Tap, tap, tap, ding. Tap, tap, tap, ding. Erik can smell dust, sweat, stale cigarettes and old coffee. The whole place is lit by a few dim, flickering light bulbs dangling from the ceiling. 

“Here.” 

Erik is startled from his thoughts by Marlowe shoving a tattered file folder into his hands. It’s surprisingly thin. Erik looks at it. The name “Xavier” is written sloppily on the tab. 

“Not the shooting case file?”

Marlowe shoots Erik a look of disdain. The police will help out private dicks like him, but they don’t like it. They just like the good booze it’s usually accompanied by.

“This is what two bottles of good whisky gets you, Lehnsherr,” Marlowe growls. “I’d lose my job if they knew I was sharing info with an asshole like you. Not much there. A domestic a couple months ago. Nothing we haven’t seen a million times.” 

“They didn’t look into it after Xavier was killed?” 

“No reason to. It was your run of the mill mugging. Shot twice. We even found one of the bullets, but we’ll never find the gun. Not in Bunker Hill.” 

Erik frowns. He nods at Marlowe, and the detective offers him a polite, congenial smile.

“Thanks, Marlowe,” Erik says, tucking the file under his arm. Marlowe glances at the file then gives Erin a look of disapproval. Erik knows the LAPD brass would not be happy if they knew their files sometimes had a habit of walking away. Marlowe knows he’ll walk it back in. Someday. In the meantime, he’ll keep it on the hush hush. 

“Got yourself a wealthy cash cow, Lehnsherr.” 

Erik smiles. Marlowe knows what’s important. This will become a real case, or it won’t. Something dirty is going on, or maybe nothing. Either way, he’s getting paid. 

Erik stops at Maxwell’s for a whisky neat before he goes to his next stop. Lou nods at him. Erik nods back in his direction. Five years coming to Maxwell’s but he and Lou barely talk. Erik likes it that way. Every night he slumps onto one of the red leather barstool and drinks, watching twinks flirt with married men who ply them with drinks until they drag them towards the bathrooms, listening to the queens gossip and now and then Erik even takes someone home. Maxwell’s is loud and raucous, alive, and protected from the police by Lou and his big wads of cash. Still, he and Lou just grunt and exchange money for booze. It’s how Erik likes it. 

It’s not even noon and Maxwell’s is quiet, only a few men in its dark corners. Erik opens up the file Marlowe has handed him and stares at its typewritten pages. It’s a run of the mill police report, the kind most cops hate even taking the time to fill out, and half usually don’t. 

Seems a neighbor called the police. A screaming fight. Broken glass in the living room. Sharon Xavier said her husband had taken off minutes before the police arrived. Erik makes a mental note to interview the neighbor. It’s a run of the mill domestic just like the run of the mill mugging. Open and shut. He doubts any of the cops bothered to poke around. The Xaviers seem to do a remarkable job of being unremarkable. 

Erik drains the last of the whisky from his glass and sets it on the shiny wood bar with a clunk. The bartender looks his way. 

“Another?” 

“Got work,” Erik drops a fiver next to the glass. “Keep the change.”

One cab ride and 30 minutes later Erik is sitting in the office of one Sid Myers. Sid is overall unremarkable. He is short and balding, his white button up shirt is rumpled and discolored from perspiration. His fingers are stained with ink and nicotine from the cigarettes he chain smokes. It’s hard to believe that Sid Myers is the tabloid king, and one of the most dangerous people in the town if you have a secret to keep. 

“Xavier?” Sid takes off the battered fedora he always sports and wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. He picks up the cigarette from the ashtray on his desk and takes a drag. 

“Brian Xavier,” Erik says again. Sid pauses and looks thoughtful. Erik watches him carefully. He can’t quite tell if Sid really doesn’t know anything or if he’s bluffing. Sid’s eyes go almost comically wide and he leans forward, as if he’s had some great revelation. 

“Wait. Isn’t that the cat who was killed last week. Robbery gone wrong?” 

“Yes. What do you know about him?” 

Sid looks thoughtful. He puts a finger to his lips. 

“Not much. East coast money.” 

That confirms the Widow Xavier’s accent.

“Came out here oh, maybe three years ago. Was going to make it big making movies. Never made it big.” 

Like a lot of people in this town. Erik wonders if Brian Xavier had financial troubles.

“Partnered with that Kurt Marko fellow at Grand National. I hear they go Cagne with Xavier’s money but all his movies have flopped. Heard he was going back to the East Coast. Then he got mugged. It’s a shame.” 

Erik almost rolls his eyes at Sid’s mock sympathy about Brian Xavier’s death. The only shame for Sid is that it was your standard mugging and not a salacious tale that could headline one of his tabloids.

“The wife drinks a lot. That’s about it.” 

“And the son?” 

“Son’s been in England.” 

Erik perks up at this. “Been, Sid?”

Sid smiles knowingly. “Lives in England. But he’s in town now. The Bilt.” 

Bingo. Erik smiles back at the man sitting behind the desk, who is taking another drag of his cigarette and looking at him with a satisfied smirk on his face. 

“I owe you, Sid.” 

“Don’t worry about it. Always happy to help a friend.” 

Erik knows this is a lie. Sid never helps anyone out of the goodness of his heart, and they are far from friends. Sid’s trade is information and Erik knows he won’t give that information up without some sort of payment. It may not be today, but Erik will now owe Sid, and Sid Myers always collects. 

He hopes it will be worth it.

The phone on Sid’s desk rings. Sid picks it up while mouthing an apology to Erik. Erik stands. He has enough to work with. He looks at his watch. It’s only two o’clock. He can make one more stop. Sid sees him standing up and puts his hand over the phone’s receiver.

“Lehnsherr, if this turns out to be something big, you’ll tell me, right? We’re always looking for a good story.” 

“Sure,” Erik lies. He might owe Sid Myers, but he’s not one of his lackies. If there’s a story, Sid can get it himself. All Erik wants to do is get paid. 

The morning cloud cover has finally burned off when Erik walks out. He blinks at the brightness. Some people like the sunny side of the city. Erik thinks it makes everything look faded and used. He prefers the glitter of LA at night or the muted tones of a cloudy Southern California morning. He puts a hand up to shade his eyes from the sun as he peers up and down the street for a cab. 

Brian Xavier was killed in an alley off Hope Street in Bunker Hill. He finally grabs a cab and gives the driver the intersection for the alley. He slumps in the back seek and pats his pockets until he finds a pack of cigarettes. Erik pulls one out and lights it as the buildings rush by. The smoke is both bitter and familiar as he inhales it. Finally the taxi slams to a stop. Erik hands the driver a wad of bills. 

He’s standing on a sidewalk outside a seedy motel. The sign across the front reads “Shangri-la” in bright green neon; the S is flickering on and off, making a buzzing sound. On either side of the Shangri-la are dilapidated houses in various states of disrepair set between shabby apartment buildings. A man sleeps to the right of the hotel’s stoop, a tattered blanket pulled over his head. A woman leans in the doorway of one of the houses, wearing a dirty red satin slip that matches her brassy red hair. Her eyes are heavy with kohl, her lips too bright for daytime. She glances over at him, her eyes assessing if he’s interested. Erik gives her a slight shake of the head; he won’t be one of her customers. Erik starts to walk north, towards the alley. The irony of a street named Hope in a place like this is not lost on him. 

The alley is sandwiched between two apartment buildings. There are lines of laundry strung up across it: house dresses, rugs and trousers. It smells of garbage and cooking, and Erik can hear the sound of a child crying bouncing off its stucco walls. Erik squints in the dimness, the two buildings blocking out the bright afternoon sunshine. It’s not hard to see how someone might miss a body lying in it. 

It’s easy to find where Xavier’s body was. Blood leaves a mark, no matter how much someone may have tried to clean it up. Erik sees the dark stain spreading out near a tall metal dumpster. He goes and stands by it, looking around him. He stares at the walls and thinks about what happened that night. Brian Xavier in the alley. Why? Why was he there? In Bunker Hill of all places. It was the type of place someone went to do things they didn’t want to be caught doing, full of hookers and dope fiends. A mistress, or maybe Xavier was a snow bird and went to Bunker Hill to score some blow? That could explain why he was in that alley, far from his home in the Hollywood hills. 

The newspapers said Xavier was shot in the head. Twice. Erik thinks about what Marlowe said. They found one of the bullets. He looks around, staring up and down the walls, searching for something. A shadow. A nick. Something slightly wrong. After studying the walls, Erik finally sees it. The stucco on the wall just above the dumpster is chipped. Erik walks over to the dumpster and leans his shoulder into its side, trying not to breathe in the smell of rotting garbage and who knows what else. He pushes as hard as he can and slowly, the dumpster moves. A rat scuttles out as the dumpster creaks. Erik is sweating and his shoulder aches. With one more push, he moves the dumpster about eight inches from where it stood. He stands and walks to the wall, looking at the spot. Erik smiles and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pocket knife, He sticks the tip into the chipped area, digs around and is rewarded when a bullet pops out and falls to the ground. 

“Bingo!” Erik says aloud, his voice echoing off the walls. He leans down and picks up the bullet, dusting it off with his fingers. The metal is slightly rough and cool. Erik slips it into his pocket. He smiles to himself. Time for a Maxwell’s whisky neat and a nice bloody steak. After one more stop. 

By the time Erik is standing outside the Biltmore his hairline is dripping with sweat. He’s regretting walking the few blocks in the muggy afternoon heat. The hotel looms above him, mere blocks away from its lesser cousin the Shangri-la, but sporting the same type of neon lights. Even the poshest hotel in L.A. feels like it's trying a little too hard. Palm trees line the sidewalk outside the hotel and Erik watches as well-dressed women and dapper men walk out into the dimming evening light. He smooths his hair back, tosses his cigarette onto the ground and grinds it with the heel of his shoe. Taking a deep breath, Erik walks into the Biltmore. 

The lobby is nothing short of opulent, with high ceilings and crystal chandeliers, plush sofas dotting the lobby, the floor is inlaid marble. Erik’s shoes echo as he walks, acutely aware that a private dick who drinks too much whisky and needs a shower sticks out like a sore thumb at the Biltmore. That crowd is more starlets and the new rich of the west coast. He walks up to the desk and a woman smiles at him. 

“Loretta,” Erik purrs. She rolls her eyes. 

“Lehnsherr. I’m not letting you into a room again. Almost lost my job over that last time. Don’t need to go back to the Veils.”

“Don’t need to look at a room,” Erik says, smiling, “At least not this time.” 

Erik had met Loretta Cancun when she was a dancer at the Seven Veils, a strip club next to Maxwell’s. She used to come in after her shift and Erik would drop her a five now and then for information on the Veil’s patrons. Then she’d gotten the desk job at the Bilt, thanks to Angel, the hotel dick, or as he prefers to tell Erik, head of security. Erik missed the stories she would tell after three vodka martinis. He also missed the occasional offer of a lap dance that he’d always refuse, telling her he wasn’t her type with a wink. 

Loretta’s new job had proven useful in other ways. 

“Angel around?” Erik asks, leaning against the polished wood of the desk. Loretta rolls her eyes again then picks up her phone. 

Angel’s in charge of keeping the shenanigans of the Bilt’s patrons out of the press, escorting drunk trouble boys out of the hotel bar and promising rich ladies their diamonds and emeralds are secure in the hotel’s safe. He’d been police a long time ago, then a private dick like Erik until the Bilt had hired him. Angel is a big man, and when he walks out to greet Erik he looks like he’s about to bust out of his white button-up shirt and dark suit. He looks like he would beat the shit out of you and leave you for dead, but Erik knows he has a sweet wife whom he adores and two daughters at home, and every now and then he invites Erik over for the tamales his wife makes every Sunday. 

“Lehnsherr, you son of a bitch,” Angel’s voice is booming. Erik smiles. 

“How’s Cecilia? The girls? I miss her tamales...”

“Get to the point, Erik. I know you don’t give a shit how my family is.”

Angel is right. Still, he likes the man and he knows his family is important. 

“Just being polite,” Erik reaches for his cigarettes out of habit but stops short. “You have a Charles Xavier here?” 

“Dead guy’s son? Yeah. What about him.” 

“Can you have Loretta keep an eye on him? Tell me when he comes and goes?” 

Angel glares at Erik. 

“Spy on our patrons? I could lose my job.” 

Erik pulls out a roll of bills he’d slipped into his pocket that morning just for this very occasion. He pulls a couple of hundred dollar bills off it. 

“I heard Gabby could use a new bike.” 

Angel rolls his eyes and sighs. 

“Cecelia still wants you to come over,” Angel says as he pockets the bills. 

“Sure,” Erik says, knowing he’ll never spend a cozy Sunday at the Salvadore residence, drinking beer with Angel and watching his kids run around. It’s not the first time Angel has asked him and it’s not the first time Erik has said ‘sure’, both knowing it was just one of the niceties they exchanged. Like everyone else in Erik’s life, Angel was just another transaction. They’re not friends, even if they pretend to be. 

Erik nods at Loretta on his way out of the Bilt. She gives him a wink back then rolls her eyes. 

When Erik finally opens the door to his shit hole apartment, his belly full of steak, baked potato and whiskey, he doesn’t even bother to turn on the light. He barely manages to pull off his shirt and trousers before he falls into bed, exhausted, but he still cannot sleep. His mind is abuzz, the way it always is when he’s on a good case. He thinks about Brian Xavier, lying dead in that alley, right next to the Shangri-la. Erik wonders again, why was the like of Brian Xavier there, with his East Coast money and his beautiful wife who drank too much. Of course, there are lots of reasons people end up dead in Bunker Hill. His eyes grow heavy and finally Erik drifts to sleep. 

The next morning is spent at the library. Erik wonders why books have that particular smell as he makes his way between the stacks to the microfilm department. It’s a unique musty smell of paper and ink, combined with dust. Every library Erik has ever been in has had the same smell, along with the same woman behind the desk with glasses perched on her nose, squinting at him with a vague look of disdain. 

“Westchester?” she asks as Erik leans on the shiny wood desk. He nods and fingers the cigarettes in his pocket, wanting to pull one out and smoke it. Maybe not around all the dry, old paper a library contains. 

“North Westchester Times,” Eriks says, “Pretty sure that’s the newspaper.” 

Sid said Xavier had been in L.A. for the last three years. What was he doing before that? That was why Erik had decided that a visit to the central library was in order. Erik had dissolved some alka seltzer in a glass to settle his roiling stomach, popped a couple aspirin, chasing them with whiskey, and headed out. The library is a monolith, built of white marble and topped with an ostentatious pyramid, a combination of Egyption and Medieval revival architecture. It covers an entire city block. The inside is all polished wood stacks, each graced by a tall lamp, as if you are walking into a cozy living room. The walls are covered by murals worthy of the walls of a church, as if going to the library is akin to a religious experience. Inside it’s whisper quiet. 

Erik finds himself in the corner hunched over a giant wood box lit from within, scrolling through roll after roll of microfilm, learning more about Westchester County than he’d ever wanted. There are dog shows interspersed with articles about the war in Europe. A robbery at the gas station. An advertisement for apples. Charles Lindberg. There’s not much about the Xaviers, just a mention here and there of Sharon throwing a fundraiser. A picture of Brian Xavier next to the mayor, the caption listing him as a chemist. Head of Xavier Corp. Then an article about Xavier shuttering his company. Erik frowns. Why did Xavier leave it all behind to come to L.A.? It makes no sense. Why did a wealthy, prominent east coast scientist give up his whole business and move to the West Coast? He didn’t sell the business, just shuttered it. Erik makes a few notes on the small pad of paper he has next to the microfilm reader. 

The Bilt is next on Erik’s list. 

Loretta smiles at him when he walks up to the imposing desk. Erik tosses a package of silk stockings at her. 

“You can’t buy me, Lehnsherr.” 

“We all know that’s not true. What do you have for me.” 

Loretta slides a piece of hotel stationary across the desk. Erik looks at it, interpreting Loretta’s sloppy scrawl. She makes a better dancer than note taker. It’s a short list. Room service for dinner. Breakfast in the restaurant at 8:30. Left with a suit coat on at 10:00 this morning. Back at 11:30. Made a phone call at the lobby pay phone. Asked where he could buy a magazine. Erik is underwhelmed. 

“He’s in his room?”

Loretta nods. 

“Keep it up,” Erik says as pleasantly as he can muster. 

“Keep bringing me silk stockings.” Loretta smiles, false and sweet. 

“I’m going to watch for him in the lobby. Can you make sure I know when he comes through.” 

“Anything for you.” 

Anything for silk stockings and imported cigarettes, Erik thinks to himself. He turns and heads to the lobby, finds one of the overstuffed couches in the back and slouches onto it, pulling the brim of his fedora over his eyes. To anyone else he might look like one of the hotel patrons taking a break from the early afternoon L.A. sunshine. He peers out from under the brim, watching people walk through the lobby, his fingers itching for a cigarette, and he wishes he were home still sleeping off the night before. 

A woman with a small dog on a leash makes her way from the elevator. She’s wearing a dress with a smart jacket over the top, a hat perched on her head. A man wearing a dapper suit and tie is next. A family, a boy and a girl, and their harried mother. The girl is whining about getting an ice cream. Erik yawns. Maybe Xavier is going to stay in his room the rest of the day and this is a waste of time. He feels his eyelids start to droop. 

Erik has been to the pictures. He’s seen that the life of a private dick is supposed to be exciting, with classy dames begging the hero to solve their case, and the detective is always cool and collected. There are goons who end up in bracelets, headed to the big house. The detective hero always gets his man. 

The reality is that half the work he does is research and knowing the right people to talk to. The other half is sitting around for long stretches of time waiting for something to happen. Like right now. Erik stretches his legs out and picks up a discarded newspaper from the table next to the couch, glancing at the headline about a water war, a killing in Chinatown. He turns to the second page when he hears Loretta’s voice across the lobby. It’s loud and brassy, meant to get his attention. Erik sits up. 

“Mr. Xavier?” 

Erik puts the paper down. He looks towards Loretta and sees a man standing in the middle of the lobby.

“Mr. Xavier?” Loretta calls again. The man turns towards her. Erik stands and starts to walk towards the desk, keeping his pace not too fast and not too slow, watching the man carefully. 

“That’s me.” 

He’s short, compact, slim. His hair is brown, a little too long. He has an English accent. His suit fits him well, looks expensive. He’s handsome. Erik pushes the thought away. 

“I think I have a message…” Loretta is rooting around behind the desk, as if she’s looking for something. After a moment, she looks up and smiles at Charles Xavier. “Oh, I must have been mistaken.” 

“My pleasure, um…” 

Erik watches at Charles leans forward and peers at the badge on her uniform, “Loretta.” 

Loretta blushes. She’s charmed. Erik scowls. He walks up behind Charles Xavier and purposely brushes up against him. 

“Sorry,” Erik mutters. 

Xavier turns and looks at him, and Erik sees that his eyes are blue, his nose is freckled and he looks surprisingly young. He remembers one of the articles he’d read that morning at the library. Charles Xavier was going to Oxford. One of the youngest professors in the university’s history, and Charles had given them a quote about how he was going to study genetics, and his goal would be disproving the concept of eugenics that seemed to have taken hold in certain circles. Charles Xavier looks too dapper, too handsome to be some stuffy professor lecturing at a podium. 

“Oh, no, please excuse me.” 

Handsome, polite and from what Erik had seen from across the room, a nice ass. At least this tail will be enjoyable. Erik glowers at Xavier, figuring it best that Charles forgets yet another rude American bumping into him. He turns, offers a quick look at Loretta then walks out the front doors of the Bilt. 

Once outside, Erik quickly walks around the corner of the hotel then leans against the side of the building. He counts to himself. One, two, until he reaches ten. He peers back around the corner just in time to see Charles Xavier walking briskly down the street. Erik shoves his hands into his pockets, pulls the brim of his hat further over his eyes, and follows him. 

Tailing Charles Xavier turns out to be an exercise in boredom. He doesn’t meet with any seedy  
hitmen or make a stop at a shady tenement house. No, he goes to the library. The corner store. He buys a magazine that discusses various starlets. Erik knows because he left it on the park bench he had sat at for at least an hour. He goes to a museum. More than one. The next day he purchases a newspaper then walks directly to the cinema to watch a newsreel that no doubt has the same information Xavier can read in the paper. Erik slouches in the back of the theater, annoyed. By the third day of tailing Charles Xavier, Erik is convinced that he was not responsible for Brian Xavier’s murder unless he had bored him to death. 

Erik should tail Charles a fourth day, but he can’t take it. He dreads the thought of dragging himself to an art museum, or spending hours staring at Xavier from across the library. Instead Erik sleeps in late then heads into his office. The bell over the door jangles as he opens the door and he glances at his name in gold letters and smiles. Erik slides into the creaky wooden chair then reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the small notebook he’s been carrying for the past few days of tailing Xavier. He glances at it and frowns, wondering if there’s something he’s missing. The picture Sharon Xavier had painted was of a man who was willing to kill his own father. Yet the man Erik had been following seemed mundane to the point of boring. Erik had been doing this job for a while. Something about Xavier smells wrong. 

He thinks he should go back to the library. Maybe later. Erik flips a few pages back in his notebook and looks at what he’d found about Brian Xavier. 

He was a chemist by trade, but the Xavier family was old money. The company he founded produced a chemical Erik had never heard of, something used in manufacturing. Methylphosphonofluoridate. Erik can’t even pronounce it. Then one day he stopped. There were articles about how his decision caused a shortage. Six months later he and Sharon had moved. 

Erik rubs the bridge of his nose. He wants black coffee, a cigarette, a taco from El Cholo. He hates the restlessness that comes with a case. He grabs his jacket when the bell on his door jangles again. Erik looks up towards the doorway. Sharon Xavier is standing there. 

“Mr. Lehnsherr,” she purrs. She looks exactly as she had a week ago, lips bright red, hair swept up, a hat with white feathers perched on her head. This time her dress is a deep, chocolate brown and she has a fox stole wrapped around her shoulders. Erik can see its beady, dead eyes staring at him, can smell the same perfume. She smiles at him, a sweet, kind smile, the kind calculated to make you feel comfortable. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“Mrs. Xavier.” 

She walks over to the chair across from his desk and sits down, crossing her slender ankles. Opening her clutch, she pulls out a pack of cigarettes and pulls one out. Erik sees her hands are trembling. She sets the cigarettes down on his desk. 

“Mind if I smoke?” 

“Only if you don’t mind if I do as well.” 

Erik slides open the top drawer of his desk and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and slides one out. He puts it between his lips then flicks open his lighter, but instead of lighting his own cigarette, he stands and offers it to Sharon Xavier. She leans forward and lights her cigarette, takes a long drag then dangkes it from her fingers. Sharon picks up the nameplate Erik has on his desk and turns it over, puts it back down, then looks at him. Erik watches her the whole time, examining the way she sits, the way her lips twitch, how her fingers keep searching for something to play with. She licks her lips, takes another drag of her cigarette. 

Erik’s eyes narrow as he realizes that she’s nervous. Why is she nervous? 

“I’ll no longer be needing your services, Mr. Lehnsherr.” 

Erik looks at Sharon Xavier. Just a few days ago she’d come into his office, the tragic widow determined to preserve her husband’s legacy. Now she was telling him to drop it. Not that there was much to drop. His mind goes to the check he’d already cashed. 

“You can keep your retainer,” she says, as if she’s reading his mind. 

Erik frowns at the woman sitting across from him. 

“Are you sure, Mrs. Xavier?” 

“Things have changed.”

“Do you want to know what I’ve found out?”

Sharon Xavier starts to shake her head ‘no’ then pauses and looks at Erik and he can see her considering her answer. Her eyes dart to the watch on her wrist, then back to him. When she speaks again, her voice is careful, almost too careful. 

“Of course I do, Mr. Lehnsherr,” Sharon Xavier hums, as if Erik has asked her a stupid question, “I hired you, after all.” 

Erik picks up his notebook. He flips it open. 

“No,” Sharon stops him. “Not now. I...I need to go.” She stands. “I’ll come back. Friday. I’ll pick it up then. I’ll bring the rest of your fee.”

“My fee?” 

“For your services.” Sharon fumbles with her clutch then drops it on the floor. She bends down and picks it up. Erik watches her with careful eyes. He’s been working in L.A. for almost seven years and even people with money don’t just give it away. Yet here the widow Xavier is telling him she’ll give him his whole fee for just a few days of work. Sharon straightens. She stubs her cigarette out in the glass ashtray that Erik keeps on his desk. 

“Thank you, Mr. Lehnsherr.” 

Eriks sits staring at the door long after Sharon Xavier has exited his office, his lit cigarette forgotten on the edge of the ashtray. He should be thrilled to have more money and less work, but he’s not. He stands and stretches, and Erik’s stomach rumbles. He remembers El Cholo. It’s a quick cab ride home. He’s flush with Xavier money now, and nothing to do but follow wherever this leads him. He grabs his jacket when he notices a package of cigarettes on the floor by his desk. Erik bends down and grabs them, annoyed he had dropped them, but on closer inspection they are Chesterfields, not his usual Lucky Strikes. Sharon Xavier must have dropped them. Erik shrugs and shoves them into the pocket of his jacket. Not his favorite brand, but he’s happy to take the widow Xavier’s donation to his habit. 

An hour later, with two greasy tacos in his belly, chased by an ice cold Mexican beer, and a half smoked cigarette dangling between his fingers, Erik slides out of the cab in front of the Xavier house. More like estate, Erik thinks, but not so palatial that the neighbors didn’t hear the Xaviers fighting. 

Erik drops his cigarette onto the ground and grinds it with the heel of his shoe. He thinks about Sharon in his office. The way her hands trembled. Erik frowns. He’s been a detective too long not to care when something feels wrong. She told him to drop the case. That was the moment Erik knew he wouldn’t. If Sharon Xavier wanted some two-bit private eye, she should have hired Vinnie Van Lowe down the street, not Erik Lehnsherr. 

He pulls his hat down to block the sun and walks towards the driveway shared by the Xaviers and their neighbor. It’s lined with palm trees and a bright green lawn stretches up towards a sleek, modern house, all glass and wood. Erik walks up to the door and knocks. A woman answers. 

She is pretty, or rather she had once been pretty. There is something worn about her, lines around her edges, her hair bottle blonde, like she’s trying too hard. He thinks he has seen her somewhere, in the pictures, a supporting character in a movie he’s forgotten. Or maybe she has the same familiar look of every washed up, ageing starlet in this town. She’s wearing a white silk kimono over a white slip and Erik sees a half empty highball sweating in her hand. Before he can even introduce himself, she speaks, her voice rough from cigarettes and booze. 

“You the cops?” 

Erik smiles. He digs in the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a battered business card then hands it to her. She looks at it, unimpressed, then tucks it inside her slip. Her eyes go back to Erik and she looks him up and down.

“You here about the Xaviers? About the fight?” Erik nods. The woman snorts. She lists the glass and drinks. “She was fucking that Marko character. Her husband found out. They had a fight. Screaming in the driveway. They’ve always been so quiet…” 

Her voice trails off. Erik wants more. 

“You heard them fight?” 

She laughs. It’s deep and throaty, and ends in a cough. 

“Oh no, handsome. I just saw it. Saw her hit him. Called the cops.” 

“Then how did you know she was fucking Marko?” 

She rolls her eyes. 

“The husband leaves. Marko rolls up. Sugar, in this town, that’s two people fucking.”

The woman invites him in for a drink. From the way she looks at him, he knows she wants more. Erik begs off, offers her a toothy smile and tells her he’s on the job. It’s half true. The other half is what she offers holds little interest for Erik. When he’s done he decides it’s time to head to Maxwell’s. He’s been busy tailing Xavier and hasn’t visited in a few days. 

Lou gives Erik his customary nod when he slides onto one of the red leather covered stools, and before he can even ask, a whiskey is sliding in front of him. Erik takes a sip and the liquor burns down the back of his throat. He savors the burn no matter how familiar it has become. He reaches in his pocket, finds his cigarettes and lights one. He’s lost in his thoughts, thinking about what the neighbor told him, about the possibility that Sharon Xavier was having an affair with this Marko character, when he hears a voice next to him. It’s familiar, low, gravelly and meant for his ears only. 

“I missed you today.” 

Erik stills. Slowly he turns to see Charles Xavier sitting next to him, grinning. Erik’s eyes go wide as Charles motions to the bartender. 

“I’ll have what the gentleman is having.” 

The bartender slides a second whiskey neat in front of Xavier, who picks up the glass and takes a sip. Erik sits frozen next to him, his mind racing. Charles sets the glass down on the bar, his fingers still wrapped around it. He turns to look at Erik, offering him a congenial grin, his blue eyes smug.

“I made you that first day,” Charles swirls his glass, takes another sip, lets his words sink in. Erik can only manage a glare back. 

_Fuck._

Charles shrugs. “You’re good. I’m better. Did you enjoy meeting Evelyn Frost?” 

“Who?” Erik isn’t following the conversation. 

“The neighbor.” 

Erik goes cold. 

_You’re good. I’m better._

Xavier had been tailing _him_. 

Erik turns and looks at the man sitting next to him. He’s met with a charming smile that hides something deadly. 

“I think we need to talk,” Erik says. He picks up the glass in front of him and drains it.

“Yes, Erik Lehnsherr, I think we do.” 

The smug smile again. 

“You want to talk here?” Erik glances around. The air is thick with tension. Two men at the other end of the bar are leaning too close to each other. One laughs a little too loudly. The other touches the laughing man’s arm. It’s intimate, an obvious dance of seduction. Erik looks away, suddenly feeling like a voyeur, then looks back at Xavier who meets his gaze unwaveringly. 

“I’m fine to talk here.” 

Erik swallows. 

“You know what this place is?” 

Charles doesn’t answer right away. He tips back his glass, drains the amber liquid. Erik braces himself for Charles’ answer. Charles puts his empty glass down and motions for another. He turns and looks at Erik. 

“I know exactly what this place is,” Charles says smoothly. Erik feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “And I know exactly who you are, Lehnsherr, and why you come here.” 

Erik stares at Xavier, shocked. A sense of panic wells up. What if it’s a trap? Xavier is working with the LAPD, who enjoy busting down the doors of places like Maxwell’s, arresting the men inside and publishing their names in the paper the next day. But Xavier seems sincere and Erik can’t detect anything but forthrightness in his tone. He trusts his instincts. He dares a question. 

“Would you come here for the same reasons?”

There are other ways to ask. Are you a queer, a homo, a fruit, light in the loafers, a friend of Dorothy? Charles gives him a long, studied look. He picks up his glass. 

“Does it matter?” 

Erik bristles. 

“You walk into my place, tell me you know why I come here, and you ask me if it matters?” 

They are dancing around each other. It’s a familiar rhythm. Xavier’s gaze doesn’t waver. 

“Yes,” he finally says. “I would come here for the same reasons.” 

Erik sucks in a breath. Charles takes a drink, glances away with a strange shyness. Erik likes this. They both have something to lose. The freckled, boyish man with his tailored suit is like him. 

“A booth?” Charles frowns, looks confused at Erik’s question. Erik shrugs. “More private than sitting at the bar.” 

Charles nods. He drains his drink again then motions at Lou, who fills both their glasses. Erik watches as Charles picks his up and heads towards one of the high-backed booths in the back. The air is hazy with cigarette smoke. A jazz singer plays on the jukebox, crooning about a lost love. A man sitting alone in one of the booths offers Erik a knowing smile. Erik glares back. He’s not going to the booth so Charles can slip under the table and suck his cock. Suddenly Erik has an image of Charles on his knees, his mouth stretched wide, and his knees feel weak. 

_Shit._

When Erik slides next to Charles on the circular booth, he feels distracted, his mind is racing, a million pieces tumbling around. Sharon in his office. Xavier and his blue eyes. Evelyn Frost telling him Marko was fucking Sharon. He’s trying to make sense of it. Little does he know things are about to get even more complicated. 

“There’s going to be a war.” 

Erik blinks at Charles, confused as to why the other man is telling him this. He sips his whisky. Charles stares at him, waiting for him to respond. 

“There’s already a war,” Erik shrugs. Everyone knows it. No one wants to be involved. The papers scream about not intervening. The newsreels show a screaming maniac and lines of men in shining black boots. He has read about the laws. He is selfishly glad to be here and not there.

Charles’ mouth twists. Erik tried not to stare at it. 

“In Europe. Don’t fool yourself, Erik. It will be here eventually too. It will be everywhere.” 

“Your father’s death has to do with the war?”

Charles nods. Erik is confused. He feels nervous, jumpy. He pats his pocket, finds his cigarettes. He needs a smoke. Another drink. For God’s sake, a fuck. 

“My father is…” Charles pauses, a shadow of grief passes quickly over his face. He starts again. “My father was a chemist.” 

Xavier is telling him nothing; things he already knows. Erik wants to roll his eyes. He finally pulls out his rumpled package of cigarettes and sets it on the table but doesn't pull one out. “I’m not that bad of a detective,” Erik growls, biting back his annoyance. Xavier ignores him and continues. 

“He made this compound. It was used in manufacturing. Then one day it was aeresolized by mistake. Three of his workers died and my father realized he had a weapon.” 

Erik frowns. This is new. Things start to click together. “He closed his factory.” 

Charles nods. 

“Yes. My father was a man of peace. He had seen the aftermath of the Great War, its horrors, the men who came home broken. He did not realize that peace was never an option once he had a weapon like that in his hands. By closing his factory, locking away his formula, he started something that would end with him dead.”

Charles’ voice trails off. He’s quiet for a long moment, a far away look in his eyes. Erik watches him. Xavier takes in a deep breath and continues. 

“One life in exchange for many.” 

The look on Charles’ face says he isn’t sure if it was worth it.

“Jesus Christ.” 

Another question niggles at Erik. 

“Why L.A.?”

“Sharon.” Charles says nothing more. Erik sees sadness in his eyes. He thinks how Charles says his mother’s name, as if she was never a mother. 

“And you came when your father was killed?”

“Murdered. He was murdered, Erik. We know that for sure.”

“We?” 

Charles pauses. He stares at Erik as and uncomfortable silence stretches between them. Charles takes another drink then sets his glass down. 

“Yes, we.” Charles’ voice is careful. “MI10. British intelligence.” 

Erik gapes at the man sitting next to him. Suddenly what started out as a typical case feels complicated. 

“My father would never have let go of the formula. Then we got word that they knew about it, were sniffing around in L.A. so I flew in.” 

Xavier is silent. Erik stares at him, watching an array of emotions play across his face. Grief. Anger. Regret.

“They killed him before you could stop them.” 

Charles nods. He looks down at the table. Suddenly he looks less the dapper gentleman and more a lost boy. Erik aches for him. He reaches hand across the table, resting it on top of Charles’. Charles’ eyes lift to meet Erik’s. Erik feels a jolt of desire. 

Jesus. 

“Why does she think you killed him?” 

“She?”

“Sharon. She hired me to prove you killed him.” 

“She’s their patsy. It’s a story they told her to keep her from trusting me. Not that it would take much.”

Charles Xavier’s face goes sad for just a moment, a sadness so deep it makes Erik’s heart ache. Erik’s fingers twitch,and suddenly he longs to reach his hand out, to smooth that sadness away, to feel Charles skin under his fingertips. Erik feels a familiar shiver. He pushes it away, his brain hanging onto something Charles said. 

“They?” Erik asks. Charles leans in closer, intimate. Erik can almost feel his breath hot against his cheek. 

“Marko. The Germans. The Nazis.” 

Erik goes cold and lets out a long, low whistle.

“We need your help, Erik.”

“Mine?” 

“Marko has the formula. I finally got into my father’s safe. It should have been there. It’s gone.”

Charles puts his hand on Erik’s. It’s a calculated gesture, meant to build rapport. Charles hand rests lightly on Erik’s, almost innocently. His touch is like an electric shock. Erik stares stupidly at their hands. After what feels like an eternity he manages to look up. 

“I don’t get involved with clients,” Erik says quietly. Charles glances down at their hands. 

“I’m not a client.” Charles strokes the back of Erik’s hand with his thumb. The light touch sends a shiver through Erik. He sucks in a shaky breath as they sit facing each other, both holding still except for the soft stroke of Charles’ thumb. After a long moment, Erik pulls his hand away. He reaches into his pocket, wanting a cigarette, or a drink, or anything to distract himself from the fact that his heart is racing and his cock is half hard for this blue-eyed, baby-faced man who has just told him that he’s a spy. The last thing he needs is the complication that is Charles Xavier. He finally locates his pack of cigarettes only to discover that he’d already smoked his last one. 

“God dammit,” Erik swears. He knows Charles is watching him. He can’t look at the other man. He remembers the cigarettes Sharon Xavier had dropped on the floor and starts to pat his pockets. 

“I just need a smoke,” Erik mutters. Finally he feels the familiar crinkle of a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his jacket that he’d dropped next to him. He pulls the package out and turns it over, tapping it to get a cigarette out. Erik taps once, twice, and finally pulls out a cigarette. He lights it. 

“Erik.” Charles’ voice is soft and intimate. “My mother is your client. I’m not. I’m just a guy you met in a bar…”

“One who was following me.” 

“One who wants to fuck you.” 

Erik takes a long drag of his cigarette and he considers the other man carefully. The last few weeks have been entirely fucked up, and Charles Xavier sitting across from him, looking younger than his age, all prim and proper, looking every bit the college professor and nothing like the spy he is just about tops it off. Charles Xavier, looking at him with serious blue eyes, telling him he is fighting Nazis and that he wants to fuck him. The whole thing fits right into the craziness Erik has been dropped into. What’s one more crazy thing?

“Okay,” Erik finally says. 

Charles smiles then slides closer. Erik presses his palms against the shiny red leather seat, bracing himself, and he feels disoriented, his head spinning. He can smell Charles’ cologne, feel the heat of his body, then he feels Charles’ hand on his thigh. Charles leans into Erik, his mouth by Erik’s ear, his breath hot against his skin. 

“Good,” Charles whispers. Erik feels flushed. His heart is racing. He turns his head to look at Charles, opens his mouth to say something, although he’s not entirely sure what: a protest, a plea. It’s too fast, too much. Before he can form words, Charles is pressing his mouth against his, kissing him. Erik opens his mouth and kisses Charles back without hesitation. Their tongues slide against each others’, slick and wet, and he feels the familiar ache of lust building up. He feels Charles’ hand on his thigh, feels it slide upwards then press against his now-hard cock. Erik groans. 

“My hotel?” Charles whispers against Erik’s mouth before kissing him again. 

“Yes.” 

_Please._

They leave Maxwell’s. Charles throws a wad of bills on the bar, Lou giving them a knowing smile. Erik glowers at the bartender. Once outside, Charles stands too close to Erik, his arm brushing against his, as Erik hails a cab. The cab ride is an exercise in restraint and it’s all Erik can do not to slide across the seat and press himself to Charles, touch him, kiss him. They walk through the lobby of the Biltomore, side by side, not touching, and Erik feels like he’s vibrating with anticipation. It’s only when the elevator doors slide shut that Charles turns to Erik and kisses him again, the fingers of his left hand hooking into the waistband of Erik’s trousers, the right sliding around Erik, gripping his ass. 

“Jesus fucking christ, you’re sexy,” Charles whispers. “I’ve wanted this since I saw you.” 

Fear grips Erik. 

“The elevator will stop.”

They both know what this means. Charles drops his hands, steps away. Erik feels stupid with lust. He wants Charles’ hands back on him, wants his mouth, his fingertips on his hot skin. He wants….

Erik startles as the elevator dings. Charles exits. Erik follows. His feet are quiet on the carpet. His heart pounds. A man walks past them in the hallway, not even glancing their way, and Erik wonders what he would think if he knew he and Charles were about to fuck. He feels exposed away from the safety of Maxwell’s. Finally they reach Charles’ door. Erik stands behind Charles, not too close, at the same time, not close enough. Erik wants to press himself against Charles’ back, to dip his head and kiss the back of his neck, to hear Charles moan and feel him push back into him. Charles fumbles with the keys and Erik sees that the other man’s hand are trembling. A feeling of satisfaction wells up and Erik is pleased that Charles appears as far gone as he feels. Finally Charles’ key slides into the lock. He turns the doorknob and they both tumble through the doorway. Charles shuts the door then turns to Erik and before Erik can say anything, he is being pinned against the door and Charles’ knee is sliding between his legs while his mouth gropes hungrily for Erik’s. Erik answers with a deep, greedy kiss that leaves his knees weak and his groin aching. He’s not sure if he’s ever wanted someone the way he wants this college-professor-turned-spy. 

“They gave me the blue room,” Charles whispers as he buries his face in the crook of Erik’s neck. Erik frowns at this statement. His hands grip Charles’ hips, pulling him closer, and he can feel that his cock is hard. 

“Who the fuck cares?” Erik growls, dipping his head, trying to find Charles’ mouth again. Charles moves his head away and Erik whines a little at being denied. He pushes away from Erik and his hand goes to the light switch, flipping it on. Erik squints in the bright light and looks around the room. It is indeed a blue room. The carpet, beds, walls, all various shades of blue. 

“I just find it absurd, something I need to apologize for.” Charles lets out a small, uncomfortable laugh, and suddenly Erik realizes something. He pulls back a little and looks at Charles. 

“You don’t do this very often, do you?” 

Charles’ face turns a delicate shade of pink. He stares up at Erik and his mouth opens, then closes again. Finally he manages to say ‘no’ then looks away. Erik reaches out and trails his fingers along Charles’ jaw, then turns him back to face him. Their eyes lock. Erik fights his amusement at the fact that Charles Xavier has suddenly decided to play host, as if he’s bringing him to his home and not a hotel room for a tawdry hook-up. 

“Just fuck me,” Erik says softly, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, when they both know that what they are doing, who they are, is deeply complicated. 

“Yes,” Charles hisses. He moves to the side table next to the bright blue bed that dominates the room. “On or off.” 

“I want to see you.” Erik’s voice is gravelling from lust. 

Charles nods and before Erik can say more, he shrugs off his suit jacket and lets it drop to the floor. His fingers go to the buttons of his starched white cotton dress shirt and Erik watches, mouth slightly open, mesmerized, as Charles deftly undoes each one. The shirt joins the jacket on the floor. Charles pushes his trousers down then steps out of them, and stands in front of Erik wearing only boxers. Erik swallows. His eyes wander over the other man’s body, taking in his broad, freckled shoulders, his slim hips, his hard cock tenting the white cotton. 

“You have lube?” Erik finally manages to squeak out. 

“Yes,” Charles comes closer to Erik, step by step, until he is standing just inches away. It is all Erik can do not to reach out and touch him, to run his hand across those shoulders, down his side, to feel the curve of his ass, to grab it with his hand and pull Charles against him. Instead he stands still, watching Charles with careful eyes. 

“You have too many clothes on,” Charles whispers, one hand going to Erik’s shoulder, pushing feebly at his jacket. Erik goes from still to a flurry of movement as he pulls off his jacket then almost rips off his shirt, letting both join the pile of Charles’ clothes on the ground. He finally stands in front of Charles, entirely naked and fully aroused, and he sees that Charles’ pupils are wide and dark with lust. Before another thought can enter Erik’s head, Charles is kissing him again, pressing against him, walking him backwards, all the while their mouths are groping for each other, until Erik feels the edge of the bed against the back of his legs and he is tumbling backwards, the bedspread scratchy against his bare skin. Erik doesn’t care because Charles is crawling up his body and his mouth is now latching onto one of his nipples. Erik arches off the bed and lets out a long, loud groan. 

“Shhhhhhhhh,” Charles whispers against his bare skin then he returns to laving Erik’s nipple. They have to be quiet. Others can’t hear. Erik arches off the bed again but this time swallows his groan, his hands gripping the bedspread. 

“Please,” Erik whispers. 

“Of course,” Charles answers. They both know what Erik is asking. Charles rolls off Erik, who whimpers at the loss of contact, but then he’s back with a small jar that he’s twisting open. Erik eyes it hungrily, then Charles is setting the jar down. The fingers of one of his hands are coated with slick lubricant, the other is nudging Erik’s legs apart. He lets his knees fall to either side, exposing himself to Charles and he hears Charles suck in a breath and swear quietly. Erik closes his eyes and arches up towards Charles, begging for him, then he feels fingers on his ass, stroking softly, circling. 

“Please,” Erik begs again, and with that word he feels Charles’ fingers press against his anus with a firmer, more persistent pressure, then he slides one inside. Erik tips his head back at the feeling. 

“So good,” Erik gasps, always aware that they need to be quiet, need to make sure no one knows what they are doing. “So very good, mein Gott, Charles, please….”

Charles’ finger slips almost all the way out then pushes back in, then he gently starts to make a circle, loosening up the tight ring of muscle, and Erik is struck with the sudden thought that it’s been too long since he’s done this. There have been men, for sure, and he’s had his cock sucked countless times, but this...this…, lying on a bed, spread out, a finger up his ass. It’s different. It’s good. Almost too good and Erik feels his cock throb and wonders if Charles kept making those lazy, slow circles, if that might be enough to make him come. 

Except Charles seems to have a different idea of where things might be heading. He pulls his finger out then straddles Erik, leaning down to capture his mouth once more. Erik kisses him back with a barely contained ferocity, his mouth a silent plea for what comes next. 

“Ready?” Charles whispers against Erik’s mouth. 

“Please.” 

With Erik’s word, Charles sits up and grabs the jar again, but this time it’s not his fingers that he slicks up but his cock. Erik tilts his chin to his chest and watches Charles, watches the way his fingers move, the way his eyes are almost closed from the sensation of touching himself, and there’s part of him that wants to tell Charles not to stop, to lie there and watch as the other man pleasures himself. The other part of him aches to be fucked, so he whispers Charles’ name, then grabs his legs and pulls them back, opening himself even wider, inviting Charles to slide inside him. 

“Yes.” Charles’ voice is deep and rough, and before Erik has a chance to ask again, Charles is slotting himself between Erik’s legs, one hand on his cock as he pushes himself past the ring of slightly resistant muscle until he is sliding inside with one swift move. Charles holds still for a long moment and Erik stares up at the ceiling, feeling full and stretched from Charles’ cock inside him. Finally he slides his arms around Charles’ back then down until they reach the crest of his ass, then Erik pushes on him, urging him to move. Charles does. He pulls out almost all of the way, then slides back in, slow and careful. A third stroke has Erik on edge, wanting, and now his hands dig into Charles’ ass and his mouth goes to Charles’ shoulder. Erik bites down hard and Charles yelps a little. 

“Fuck me, goddamn it.” 

It’s like a dam breaks. Charles’ hips snap forward and he thrusts into Erik hard, setting a breakneck pace that has Erik gripping Charles’ back as his head is pushed into the bed. His cock is hard and leaking. Charles is above him, sweat running down his hairline, his face flushed, mouth open. A deep shivery ache that never quite gets Erik where he wants to be runs through him. He turns his head to press one of his cheeks against the bedspread and he wants to cry from frustration. 

Suddenly Charles is pulling out and Erik lets out a protest when Charles tells him to turn over. Erik tumbles onto his hands and knees, and Charles slides back inside, one hand gripping Erik’s hip and the other reaching under him to grip his cock. Charles presses himself against Erik’s back, their skin slick with sweat, his mouth making its way across Erik’s damp shoulder until Charles is whispering in his ear. 

“You cock, so fucking hard and hot. Come for me, Erik. Come for me.” 

His words tip Erik over the edge and the shivery feeling tightens and focuses into an orgasm that leaves Erik bucking back against Charles as he fights to keep his balance. Charles slides into Erik again, then a second time, and it’s too much. 

“No,” Erik whispers, pushing against Charles. Charles slides out just as Erik flips himself onto his back and stares up at the other man. Charles straddles Erik, flushed and sweaty, his eyes wide and glossy with tears as they stare at each other. Without a word, Erik reaches for Charles’ cock. 

“Your turn.” Erik whispers as his hand grips Charles’ cock. It takes only a few pumps before Charles is coming, come spurting onto Erik’s chest. 

“Jesus christ,” Charles spits out just before he collapses onto Erik. They lie there for a long moment, sticky and spent, the room dim, both breathing hard. Finally Charles places a kiss on Erik’s chest, then another, then he lifts his head and looks at him with those blue eyes. 

“Thank you.” 

Erik can’t answer. He pulls Charles into his arms and holds him, and they both fall asleep. 

When Erik wakes up he’s alone. He stretches a little and wrinkles his nose at the fact that he’s a stinking, sticky mess. When he reaches out to the side Charles slept on, the sheets are cold. Erik turns his head a little and listens for the sound of a shower, or someone getting dressed, and is only met with the quiet hum the air conditioner. He tries to ignore the clench in his chest as he realizes that he’s alone, not sure if he should have expected anything more. 

The carpet is soft under Erik’s feet as he swings out of bed. Glancing around, he spies his clothes folded neatly on a chair sitting next to a dark wood table. He stretches again, arms reaching towards the ceiling, letting out a loud groan, then goes to grab his clothes. There’s a note on top, scrawled on a small piece from the standard notepads found in most nicer hotels, Los Angeles Biltmore across the top. 

_Maxwell’s at 1? C.X._

Erik’s chest unclenches and he smiles. He grabs his clothes and heads towards the bathroom. He might as well shower and take advantage of the nice soaps fancy places like the Biltmore leave out for their customers. 

Thirty minutes later, Erik is standing on the sidewalk outside the hotel, his damp hair making him feel chilled, smelling like floral soap despite his wrinkled clothes from the previous night. It’s only ten o’clock and he has three hours to kill until he heads to Maxwell’s. He pulls out the package of cigarettes in his pockets and frowns when he finds it empty, then tosses it into a nearby garbage can. He might as well follow up on Kurt Marko. 

The studio for Marko’s company, Grand National Films, can hardly be called a studio. It’s a dilapidated, ramshackle warehouse on the outskirts of Burbank. Erik squints as he stares at the warehouse, located close enough to the major studios to give it some credibility, but far enough away to maintain Grand National’s B movie status. He searches until he finds a gray metal door that’s marked ‘Entrance’. Moments later he’s standing in front of a steel case desk in a front office being ignored by a woman who is busy talking on the phone. Erik stares at her while she tells the person on the other end of the line all about someone named Carol and her shenanigans with Doug, until he finally clears his throat loudly. The woman glances up, annoyed, then offers Erik a small, fake smile.

“Gotta go.”

She hangs up the phone, clacking the phone loudly into the cradle, then asks in a loud, brassy voice that matches her bright bottle red hair, “How can I help?” 

“Kurt Marko. Is he around?”

Erik watches as the girl’s eyes roll up into her head. She smacks her gum a couple times and sighs heavily, then starts hunting around her desk for something, moving stacks of papers as she’s talking. 

“You tell me. Cagney is trying to pull out of Angels with Dirty Faces, the phone is ringing off the hook….”

Erik thinks the phone wasn’t so busy that someone didn’t get the full story about Carol and Doug. 

“...and Mr. Marko decides to take off with that woman….”

“That woman?” 

“Yeah. Mrs.Someone, foreign sounding name, all stuck up with, never gave me the time of day. Been comin’ in here for the last six months or so. Closed doors and all, if you get what I mean.” 

_Sharon Xavier_

The woman opens a drawer in her desk and starts looking through it as Erik watches her. 

“Blonde? Nice clothes.” 

“That’s her. Maybe she knows where Mr. Marko is. This whole project is gonna blow up. And we’re wrapping up Bank Alarm…AHA!”

The woman’s voice trails off a little as she sits up and finally looks at Erik. She’s clutching a manilla folder in one hand, and the other goes to smooth her hair a little. Her voice shifts from annoyed to poised as she smiles up at Erik as if she’s meeting him for the first time. 

“Well, hello there, mister….”

“Lehnsherr, private investigator.” 

“Ohhhh...a P.I. Sexy. Maybe you can investigate where all our money’s gone Mr. Lehnsherr, P.I. Things were going fine until that woman showed up. Then Mr. Marko starts being gone long periods of time, there’s some shady characters. At first I thought maybe he’d become a dope fiend, all those visits to Bunker Hill, but he didn’t look strung out. So it must be that woman…”

“Sharon,” Erik says quickly, trying to get a word in edgewise as the woman chatters at him, but not wanting her to stop. Erik pulls out his notepad and pencil and starts to scribble furiously as she continues talking. 

“Yeah, that’s her. I mean, Mr. Marko has his ways, and it’s not the first time he’s been involved with some side actions with an investor’s wife, but she...she was trouble...oh, I’m Helen. Helen Acosta. Mr. Marko’s secretary, but at this rate I might as well be running this shit hole.”

Erik looks up from his notepad to see Helen Acosta with one hand on her hip, the other thrust towards him, and a wide smile on her face. It seems the trouble at Grand National isn’t going to stop her from flirting. Erik’s thoughts go briefly to Charles, and he thinks Helen needs some lessons in flirting. Erik smiles kindly, but not too much, trying to send the message that he’s not interested. 

“Did you ever notice anything strange? Anyone odd coming around?”

“Nah. I mean, nothing other than my boss fucking his partner’s wife and the whole studio tanking. I’m not sure I have anything else to tell you, um, Mr. Lehnsherr, private investigator. Do you have a first name?”

Erik winces as she leans closer to him. He can smell sweet, cheap perfume mingled with stale cigarettes. He pulls back as she runs her tongue across her teeth while she looks him up and down. Helen Acosta is the kind of girl who goes to church, says her prayers, all while broadcasting that she’s out for a good time. She reaches out and runs a red lacquered nail down the sleeve of Erik’s jacket. Erik reaches for her hand and watches as her pleased look changes to annoyed as he moves it off him. 

“Thank you, Ms. Acosta,” Erik says politely, ignoring the disappointed pout she is now directing at him. There is part of Erik that wants to reassure Helen Acosta that it’s nothing personal, and he is sure there is a man out there who will succumb to her wiles. It’s just not him. He reaches into the pocket of his suit and pulls out his card then hands it to her, telling her it’s just in case she remembers anything. Erik turns and is about to leave when she says his name. He turns and looks at her. 

“There’s the bank transfer. That was weird.” 

Erik’s eyebrow arches. “Bank transfer?”

“Yeah. A few weeks ago. Came from Switzerland, some bank there. We don’t have any Swiss investors. I took the call and Mr. Marko was all ‘hush hush’ about it.” 

Erik thinks. A few weeks ago was just before Brian Xavier was found dead in the alley. It could be….

“And the gun.”

This time Erik can’t contain his surprise. It seems Helen Acosta knew a bit more than he expected. 

“He had me buy a gun,” Helen continues, a finger on her lips as she thinks aloud, “Was that before the transfer or after, oh, I can’t remember. It was just as Something to Sing About was releasing and Cagney was calling every day asking about who was coming to the premier. I liked it better when we didn’t have a big star as part of the studio, all he does is demand and complain, but yeah, I think it was, maybe after the money….” 

“The gun,” Erik manages to say. Helen stops and stares at him. 

“What about it?” 

Erik bites back his frustration. “What kind of gun?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Something with a horse's name. Mare, or something…”

“Colt? It was a Colt?” 

Helen smiles, “Yeah. A colt.”

“Thanks, Helen,” Erik says, offering her a genuine smile. Helen Acosta’s face lights up. Erik ignores her and turns to leave. Maybe Helen Acosta has the wrong idea. It doesn’t matter because Helen Acosta may have just linked Kurt Marko to the murder of Brian Xavier. All he needs to do is get forensics on the bullet he dug out of the wall…. Erik glances at his watch. He has enough time to beat Charles to Maxwell’s. 

Forty five minutes later, Erik is sitting in the same booth in the back of Maxwell’s, _their booth_, an untouched whiskey, neat, in front of him, when he hears his name. Erik glances up to see Charles Xavier walking towards him. Erik can’t watch Chalres without thinking back to the night before, how he felt against him, his voice rough in his ear. He swallows as his cock goes half hard just watching the way Charles moves. The information about Kurt Marko slips away as Erik thinks of all the things he might say to Charles; starting with ‘hello’ and ending with ‘last night was one of the best fucks I’ve ever had’ and somewhere inbetween would be something about how much Erik likes this surprising man, and can they keep seeing each other. He likes Charles Xavier more than he thinks he should after one encounter, and this fact both thrills him and terrifies him that maybe this could be something more. 

Erik slips from the booth as Charles approaches, standing and wiping his palms on his trousers. He reaches out to greet Charles only to have Charles avoid him. Erik watches as Charles sits down across from him. 

Something is wrong. Erik smiles uneasily and starts talking before Charles can say anything. 

“I think I have Marko.” 

Charles’ eyes go wide with surprise. Erik grins, forgetting about the strange tension Charles is carrying, or the nervous way he’s tapping his fingers on the table. Erik tells Charles about Helen Acosta, the Swiss bank transfer and the gun. 

“And you have the bullet?” Charles asks when Erik is done. Erik nods. It’s in his office, tucked away in his desk drawer. All he has to do is get another good bottle of whiskey from Lou and go pay Sully, the LAPD forensics expert a visit. 

“Erik Lehnsherr, you’re a brilliant P.I.!” Charles says excitedly. Erik smiles warmly and takes Charles’ hand in his. Charles stills and Erik’s stomach drops. 

_Something’s wrong._

“Erik,” Charles starts, his voice stiff and polite. Erik forgets all about Kurt Marko, Sharon Xavier, the bullet and the missing formula. 

“No,” Erik whispers. All hopes of last night being more than a dirty fuck in a hotel room slips away. 

“You know it can’t be more,” Charles’ voice is hushed, intimate. “If they find out…about us...the people I work for….” 

“It’s wrong,” Erik spits out through clenched teeth. Charles looks at him, his eyes searching Erik’s face. “You, me, this. We should be able to have what we want. We should be able to be normal…”

“Normal, Charles huffs. “We aren’t normal, Erik. We’re queer. I’m a spy. MI10. If they find out, I’ll be locked up for indecency. My career will be destroyed. I can’t….”

Erik stares at Charles and he can’t say anything because he knows Charles is right. 

“It’s fine,” Erik says tersely. Charles’ face falls. He reaches out and puts his hand on Erik’s forearm. Erik jerks away. His whole body shakes with anger and disappointment. This...this is wrong. Erik shirks away from Charles’ touch. “Actually, no, Charles, it’s not fine. I like you. I want you. I want to see you more, to see if we could be more…. It’s not right that we don’t get what other people get.” 

Charles looks away, as if Erik’s words are more than he can handle. For a long moment silence hangs between them, full of sorrow, regret and injustice. Finally Charles lifts his head and looks at Erik with eyes glassy with tears.

“Maybe if it were a different time…people like us….” Charles’ voice trails off but Erik knows what he’s saying. There are no houses in the suburbs, white picket fences and 2.5 kids for people like them. They don’t get to date or fall in love. 

“It’s wrong,” Erik says aloud. 

“It’s what it is,” Charles answers. Erik feels ill. He looks away from Charles and swallows his anger and disappointment. 

“I want more.” Erik’s voice is quiet. 

“I can’t give you more,” Charles stands up. “I’m sorry, Erik. I should never have taken you to my room, I just didn’t know….”

“Know what?”

“Know that I’d like you this much.” 

Erik wants to yell at Charles, to stand and push the table over, to punch something. Instead he just watches Charles. 

“There are other ways, Charles.”

“Not for me.” 

And with those words, Charles Xavier walks away. 

Erik sits in the booth for a long time. The booth where they started and ended. He wants to cry, but something in him won’t let him. Instead he huffs out a wry laugh, thinking that this might be the shortest love affair of his life. Something tells him that wondering what might have been with Charles Xavier is going to hurt more than if they’d managed to have more than one night. Erik sighs and thinks he probably should grab one of Lou’s nice bottles of booze and head to the police station. Charles Xavier doesn’t mean there isn’t a murder to solve, and he’s too close to let it go. But first he’s going to have one more whiskey and a cigarette. 

Erik motions to Lou then pats around his jacket before he remembers he had thrown away his empty cigarette package before he want to see Kurt Marko. Erik scowls, patting his pockets to see if he may have a stray cigarette when he feels a familiar crinkle. Erik shoves his hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out the Chesterfields he’d found on the floor of his office. He turns the package over and taps on it, just as Lou sets down another whiskey in front of him. Erik barely notices because something besides a cigarette has fallen out. A small, black container. Erik picks it up and stares at it, his cigarette and whiskey forgotten. He knows exactly what he’s looking at. 

The formula. Holy fuck, he’s holding the formula. 

Erik shoves it back into the cigarette package and stands up so quickly he almost tips over the table. 

_The formula._

Sharon must have accidentally dropped it in his office. He’s been carrying it around, not knowing he had it. Charles just left. Maybe he can catch him….

The sidewalk is empty when Erik bursts out onto it. The clouds are burning off and the sun is shining high in the sky. Erik’s heart pounds and he forces himself to stop and think. Charles. He needs to find Charles. The Biltmore. Maybe he went back to his hotel room. Erik looks to his left, then his right, then, seeing a familiar yellow car down the block, he lifts his arms and waves. When the taxi pulls up, Erik jumps in. 

“The Biltmore. Go fast and there’s a good tip in it for you.” 

The driver nods and presses the gas pedal so hard that Erik is thrown backwards. The car weaves in and out of traffic, the driver leaning on the horn, yelling out the window. It’s not far to the Biltmore but it feels like hours until the taxi cab finally screeches to a halt. Erik throws some bills at the driver as he bolts out of the cab, then ignores the shocked look from the bellhop as he pushes through the huge, ornate doors that lead to the lobby. 

Erik is clutching the cigarette package in his hand as he bursts in. Then he stops. Loretta Cancun is standing behind the desk, her face as white as a sheet, eyes wide. When she sees him, she looks to her left. Erik follows her gaze to see that Charles is indeed there, and he is not alone. A woman is standing facing him, dressed in a smart green suit, a hat carefully perched on her head, and a gun in her hand. 

_Sharon Xavier_

Sharon Xavier, the grieving widow intent on protecting her husband’s legacy is gone. This Sharon Xavier is staring at her son with a frosty look of disdain on her face. She is saying something to Charles, her red lips curling upwards. Erik nods quickly at Loretta then takes a step towards where Sharon and Charles are standing. Then another. As he gets closer, he starts to make out what she’s saying. 

“...you’re a deviant, Charles. A fag. People like you…” Sharon’s voice is so cold that it sends shivers down Erik’s spine. He looks from Sharon to Charles, and suddenly he aches for what Charles Xavier has been through, what it must have been like to grow up with someone like Sharon Xavier as his mother. 

“The best thing I ever did was leave that house and leave you for Oxford,” Charles’ voice is quiet and steady. “You never wondered why I worked so hard in school. It wasn’t just because I was smart. It was because I wanted to get away from you.” 

“The only deviant is you, Sharon,” Erik says quietly. Two pairs of eyes look towards him and Erik ignores the shock on Charles’ face, moving to stand next to him. Sharon’s eyes narrow. Her mouth is a pinched, angry line. 

“Your knight in shining armor, Charles? He can’t save you. Give me the formula. I know you stole it from me.” 

Erik can’t hold back a laugh. He sniggers and Charles glances at Erik then frowns. Erik doesn’t look at Charles, he looks at Sharon, who is staring back at him, puzzled. 

“What’s funny, Lehnsherr?” Sharon asks, “Besides the joke of a detective you are? You served as a good distraction for me, but not good enough, it seems.” 

Erik smiles at Sharon and holds up the cigarette package. Sharon looks at it briefly, her expression blank, then looks back at Erik, who is smiling even more now. 

“What’s funny, Sharon, is that I might be Charles’ knight in shining armor after all. It wasn’t Charles who stole the formula. It was _you_ who _lost_ it.”

Sharon’s eyes go wide with the realization that the cigarette package Erik is holding is the one she had left in his office, that the formula is now in Erik’s hands. The surprise on her face slips away and she offers him a small, cruel smile.

“I guess it’s you I’ll have to kill then.”

Erik stares at Sharon and the gun she’s now pointing at him. Sharon holds the gun steady, and Erik notices that this time her hands do not tremble. He wonders how much of Sharon has been an act. Maybe her whole life. His mouth feels dry, his tongue thick and his heart is beating so fast he thinks it might burst open his chest. He fights to stay calm. Whatever comes next, he needs to stay calm. Erik sucks in a long, deep breath. 

“Sharon,” Charles says from Erik’s left. He wants to look over at him but he cannot look away from Sharon. The pack of cigarettes is still clutched in Erik’s hand. Charles voice is smooth and calm. “He has nothing to do with this. Let him go. It’s _me_ you want.”

Sharon’s gaze flicks over to Charles and she huffs out a small laugh. “You’re wrong, Charles. I’ve never wanted you. Not once. Not even when you were a baby. I don’t want you now either. I just want the formula. And he has it. So why do I care about you?”

Erik’s chest clenches at Sharon’s words. He thinks of Charles, of the haunted look in his eyes. 

“Give me the cigarettes, Erik.” Charles’ voice is closer now. Erik feels his heart pound. His mind races. If he gives the cigarettes to Charles…. “You aren’t part of this, Erik. You never were. She used you. I used you. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t resist….”

_Charles kissing him. Charles’ hands digging into his back. Charles whispering his name over and over._

The clench in Erik’s chest becomes pain. He shakes his head. No, he will not give Charles the formula just so Sharon can kill her son. He looks at Sharon, at her carefully styled blonde hair and her expensive clothes. 

“Why?” Erik asks. Sharon smiles then lets out a satisfied chuckle. 

“You actually want to know? Money. The move to L.A. took everything Brian had. I was used to certain luxuries. For a while Kurt provided them, but he’s a bore. Lucky for me, a bore who was in love with me.”

_Was._ A chill runs through Erik. 

“That idiot is the one who told me about the formula. He was going to steal it for the Nazis. I played along. Told him I loved him too. That I’d marry him. He’s the one that had Brian killed. Got money from his connections in Germany. Beat Brian to get the code to the safe. All I had to do was get the formula off Kurt. It was a clean sneak until Charles showed up.” 

“Why me?” Erik asks. Sharon didn’t need Erik to pull off her scam, yet she had come into his office and told him her sob story, lied to him about Charles killing his father. 

Sharon laughs. “Just a way to get to Charles. That’s all you ever were. I found you in the phone book. I had no idea you’d become a problem. The police weren’t listening to me and I needed Charles occupied, so I went to you. Gave you a sad song about Brian’s legacy, figured once Charles made you he’d have his hands full dealing with some two-bit hack of a PI and I’d be clear to get the formula and get out of town.” 

“And Marko?” Charles asks. Sharon smiles. 

“Oh Kurt. That idiot. Swimming with the fishes. It was easy. Told him I loved him, that I’d made a mistake. Slipped him a mickey and took him for a drive. They won’t find his body for weeks.” 

“The formula? What were you planning to do with it.”

“The highest bidder, Charles.” Sharon’s smile grows wider. “The Russians made the best offer. I knew Kurt would never agree to sell it. Kurt was in it for his love of the fatherland.”

“Father.” Charles’ voice is strangled. “You husband. He never wanted this. He wanted to save lives, not destroy them.” 

“Your father,” Sharon hisses at Charles, “Was a failure.” 

Rage courses through Erik. His fist closes around the cigarette package. He holds it out towards Sharon, whose eyes go wide. 

“I’ll destroy it.” Erik threatens. 

“Destroy it and you’re dead. Do you think I won’t kill both of you? Are you that stupid?” 

Erik Lehnsherr is far from stupid. Sharon Xavier doesn’t know this. He closes his eyes for a second and prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that what he’s about to do will work, then he takes in a deep breath and opens them. Erik puts his hand out. He opens it to reveal the crumpled cigarette package. He offers it to Sharon. 

“You’re wrong, Sharon. I’m not stupid. I know opportunity when I see it. You want the formula, you can have it. Sell ll it to the Russians. All I want is a cut. Enough to be comfortable. Charles is the stupid one….” 

“...Erik, no!” 

Erik feels Charles’ hand on his arm. _Trust me. Please trust me._ He can’t look at him. Erik stares at Sharon, his eyes daring her to take his offer. She watches him warily through narrowed eyes. Erik decides to up the ante. 

“It’s what you want, right? The formula?” 

“Thousands will die…” Charles’ words are strangled. Erik glances sideways at the other man, sees the anguish in his face. 

_Trust me._

Sharon takes a step forward, then another, the gun still pointed at Erik. Erik knows if Charles tries to stop her, she’ll shoot Erik, and he knows that Charles will not let that happen. He’s banking on it. 

“A deal,” Sharon says, “You surprise me Mr. Lehnsherr.” 

“I know a good opportunity when I see one.” 

“Just let Charles go.” 

There’s only a foot of space between them now. 

“Yes.” Sharon smiles, “That’s the problem. If I let him go, he’ll find me, and you see, Mr. Lehnsherr, that is the one thing I can’t have.” 

“NOW!” Erik yells. He lunges forward, plowing into Sharon just as the loud crack of a gun going off echoes through the lobby. There’s blood. So much blood. Sharon slumps against him and starts to slip towards the floor. Erik hears a loud clunk and looks down to see Sharon’s gun skittering across the marble tile of the lobby. Erik looks up again and smiles at Loretta Cancun, who is standing with a small Barretta in her hand, smoke drifting up from the barrel. He silently thanks Angel for being just paranoid enough to make sure Loretta had a gun under her desk. 

It’s over. 

There are sirens in the distance. Erik’s shirt is soaked in blood. He lowers Sharon to the floor. She stares up at him, her eyes glassy, her mouth open. Erik looks up. He sees Charles staring at him. Erik’s eyes go the the package of cigarettes on the ground. It’s spattered with blood. His eyes return to Charles. 

“Erik,” Charles voice is full of anguish. A feeling of dread and loss starts to well up and Erik knows…. Charles picks up the package of cigarettes and looks at Erik again. “I….” His voice trails off. Their eyes stay locked. Erik’s chest clenches. He knows. Charles cannot stay. He cannot risk the police getting ahold of the formula. “I’m sorry,” Charles finally manages to say. 

Erik’s eyes fill with tears. So is he. 

It’s only then he realizes he had been clinging to some hope that maybe he and Charles Xavier could still be more, and now there is no chance. Charles turns and strides quickly out the lobby just as the first police car screeches to the curb. Erik stares after him, holding his dying mother’s body.

There are a million stories in the City of Angels. The story of the Xavier family was no different than any other story: tawdry, full of deceit and in the end, tragic. It was no different than any of the clients who walk through the door that has Erik Lehnsherr, Private Eye in gold letters across the glass. 

They didn’t charge Loretta Cancun. The police ended up deciding it was self defense. She had returned to the desk from her lunch to find Sharon threatening Erik with a gun. Erik suspects Angel has something to do with Loretta getting off. No one ever asked her why she kept that baretta under the desk. All Erik could do was thank her for saving his life. 

“Maybe you should be my secretary,” Erik had said, leaning against the shiny Biltmore desk. Loretta had winked at him and refused, telling him that no one really wanted to work for him. She was right. 

Kurt Marko’s body was found two weeks after Sharon Xavier made headlines by being shot in the lobby of the Biltmore. The tabloids screamed half truths about a communist plot, a tawdy affair, and speculated that Sharon Xavier was a dope fiend who tried to murder her son and gain her late husband’s fortune. Nothing about MI10 or the formula. Sid had asked Erik for the truth. Erik had only told him half of it. He said nothing about a blue-eyed professor who turned out to be much more than he appeared. 

Erik still goes to Maxwell’s. Lou still plops down a glass of whiskey in front of him every time he slides onto one of the bar stools. He never sits in the booth. Too many memories. Too many lost chances. Instead he drinks enough to be almost drunk but never enough to be in his cups. He’s still got a job to do, after all. There are still cheating husbands to follow and mistresses to get dirt on. The Xavier money won’t last forever and a man has to eat. 

Three months after the shooting of Sharon Xavier, most of the hoopla has died down, Erik is sitting in his office. It’s a balmy, muggy day in Los Angeles and his window is cracked open, letting in a stale, warm breeze that does nothing to help the sweat that rolls down his collar and stains the back of his shirt. His temples throb and he presses his fingers to them, willing the pain away. One too many whiskeys at Maxwell’s the night before. He thinks maybe he should slow down, but the thought is gone almost as soon as he has it. Whiskey is his only friend some days. Erik opens the bottom drawer of his beat up desk, pulls out a flask and takes a drink. The liquor burns pleasantly down the back of his throat. He glances around his desk. He should do something to clean up around his office, organizes his files, or something like that. Business is slow with the hot weather. 

Erik sighs. He picks up one of the manila file folders he has piled on his desk and flips it open, staring at its contents for a long moment but reading nothing. He closes it. He puts the flask back into the bottom drawer, shutting it with a slam. He might as well go grab some lunch. It might help his pounding head. Lou had said something about a new burger joint at the corner of Interstate 10 and Francisquito Avenue. Erik is about to stand when he hears the bell on the door to his office tinkle. Erik frowns. The last thing he wants to do is deal with a client. 

“I’m not open,” Erik says irritably, turning to grab his jacket. It’s too hot for a jacket but it’s part of the uniform and Erik feels naked without it. 

“That’s too bad,” a familiar voice says from the doorway of his office states. Erik turns to look at who is speaking. He already knows exactly who it is. He can’t forget that voice.

“Charles.” 

“I thought I’d see if you want to get a coffee.” Charles’ voice is almost too casual. Erik stares at him, taking him in. He looks exactly the same, but somehow different, softer, and nervous. Charles wipes his hands on his trousers and his eyes dart from left to right before landing back on Erik. Erik smiles a little, remembering that his mother pointing a gun at him didn’t make Charles Xavier nervous, but for some reason, standing in front of the man he had a one night stand with does.

“You left.” Erik says, not able to think of anything else to say. 

“I had to.” 

Erik remembers Sharon, the stunned look on Charles’ face. The formula. It needed to be in the right hands. Charles had a job to do. Leaving was part of the job. His mother dying on the floor of the Biltmore lobby was part of the job….

“Your mother…I’m sorry….”

Charles shrugs an Erik sees a sadness flicker over his face. “She hadn’t been my mother for a long time.” 

“And now you’re back?” 

“Yes.” 

“For good?” 

“For a bit.” Charles takes in a deep breath and hesitates, then adds. “For you.” 

Erik stares at him. “Me?” Erik he says slowly. “You need me for a job?”

“No. No job. Just you.”

_You._

Erik can’t breathe.

“Why?” 

Charles’ composure slips a little. He steps forward and reaches for Erik, but stops short of touching him. When he finally speaks, his voice is shaky. 

“Because of what you said. Because I can’t forget you. Because I want a life, Erik.” 

Erik stares at Charles, trying to digest what the other man is saying. 

“I left MI10. I took a sabbatical from Oxford. I want to see if you and I, if we can have that life….” Charles is stumbling over his words now, “and...and I was hoping to ask you....thought maybe, um...wanted to start with a cup of coffee.” Charles grows red, “With a date.” 

_A date._

Erik wants to kiss him. He wants to rush to Charles and take him in his arms. He wants to lift Charles off his feet, swing him around hen bury his face in his shoulder and inhale the scent he’s dreamed of. He wants to fall to his knees and tell Charles that he will be his forever. Because some things are meant to be. 

Instead he shrugs on his jacket and smiles. 

“A date. Sure.” Erik says, almost too casually, “I know a place.” 

~fin~


End file.
